The silent affair
by Glewiel
Summary: Basically I was wondering why no one seemed to notice the wedding ring on Mycroft s hand... This story is about Mycroft Holmes and his wife, a possible-kidnapping and Sherlock helping his brother, while there's something even bigger going on in London... Rated M for killing people and maybe for some sexual hints
1. Prologue: The photograph

Disclaimer: I don´t own anything of SHERLOCK except of my OCs. And of course I don´t earn money with writing this...

Please forgive me if you find any grammar and spelling mistakes. I am a german who now lives in Finland and my english is... improvable. It would be a great help for me, if anyone would be willing to become my beta for this story. Thank you! :)

Prologue: "The photograph"

"Darling?" Mycroft Holmes wandered around inside his house. He left his shoes in the big hall, but he was still in his coat, the black umbrella as usual at his side.

The big victorian-style house was quite dark and looked completely clean and empty. Mycroft knew that the first thing was true – of course he didn´t clean it himself, but the staff they had, was highly educated in these things – and that the second was not, because exactly that staff was hiding professional in the big villa. And so did the person he was searching for.

The older Holmes brother frowned. Where was she? He didn´t like screaming for her.

"Maggie?"

Especially he didn´t like calling her by her pet name. Of course that was because he didn´t like pet names after all, but she had told him after their first night, that she would not allow him to call her Margarete. Or just Mrs. Holmes, later when they became married.

No, she was Maggie and sometimes Mycroft caught himself calling her like that in his mind as well.

He opened the door of their sleeping room, where they spendt so few nights together with Mycroft knowing himself being always more married with his work than with his wife. Another thing that Mrs.- Maggie – had to except.

The bed was well made... something caught his eye. It was a little too well made. He stepped nearer, touched the day blanket with is fingers.

_No one slept here for at least four nights..._

The-British-Government-in-person frowned again, taking out his mobile, texting Anthea to instantly drive back to the manner and wait for him at the door.

Then he went to the bed table, checking the surface. No signs that anything has laid there for the last days. His wife was a passionate reader. She hasn´t been here.

Mr. Holmes ran into the kitchen, passing the living room. Everything looked completely clean and calm, a perfect, comfortable home. Of course, the cleaners would have erased all signs that might have been there. He opened the kitchen door slowly, knowing that no one could be inside. The security would have warned him instantly, because there were security cams all over the house, even in their very private rooms Mycroft could have not allowed himself to get incautious.

He was mighty. Maybe the mightiest man in the United Kingdom. There were people who only waited in the shadows for a chance to kill him. And Mycroft knew them all. Did one of them try to kidnap Margarete? But no, that was impossible. This house was well protected. He had guards here that would let no one in and if anyone would have tried, he would have been informed. And nothing has happened. He has been away the last week, travelling to Afghanistan and North Corea after that, but neither Maggie not anyone of his employers had called him during that time. And now he came home, finding his wife absent. This was suspicious. Very suspicious.

Suddenly the umbrella fell out of his hand. There was a photograph laying on the kitchen table.

Cheap paper, printed in a shop, probably in London, has never been touched with bare hands, could probably give details about the kidnappers? Murderers? Habitation.

The well-trained brain of Mycroft Holmes deducted all these facts in less than 5 seconds. But the little warm part in the icemans body could only stare at the woman who was pictured in the photograph. Her blonde hair was laying in soft curls around her head. She was sitting in a garden chair, Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" in her hand, smiling happily to the man who was taking the picture. It had been Mycroft himself, last summer. But the most shocking of the photo were the two crossed lines that someone has painted over her face.

He took out his phone, forced himself to concentrated and said with his non-shaking voice: "Lock the manner!"

In that very second the house grew completely dark, as every outside door and window was closed and only the red alarm lamps gave Mycroft enough light to pick up his umbrella, opening the sight of every security camera all over the house. Then he frowned and sighed. He was too late. The house was completely quit, but not empty. His staff was lying dead, shot by several bullets, in the kitchen and their rooms. Whoever killed them has left the house instantly. Remarkable was that none of the alarms had started.

He didn´t like that affair. Holmes didn´t liked it after all. Someone came unseen into his house, probably kidnapped his wife and killed the personnel, without being noticed by any security. He had a serious problem.

With a last look on the photograph was the mightiest man after all leaving his villa completely locked behind. Anthea was standing with the chauffeur outside, both were having revolvers in their hands, looking worried and relaxed when he came in sight.

"Sir, what happened?" Anthea was looking at him worried. Mycroft didn´t answer, his brain was working hard. Could anyone of his employes been involved? He looked into Antheas brown eyes. At was one of the very rare moments now when she was not looking at her smart phone.

No, he decided. Whoever was responsible for this mess was an outsider. And outsider that was very good informed about him. Too good.

"Sir...?" The chauffeur got into the car, and so did Anthea and Mycroft. "Where do we go?" Anthea was looking worried. Of course she was sensing something big being wrong, when her boss was behaving so unusual. He caught her eye. This woman was clever. So was Mycroft himself. But for this affair he´d be needing the help of someone even cleverer. Well – in these sort of things after all.

"221B Bakerstreet. Time to ask for some favours from my baby-brother!"


	2. Its a brain

Disclaimer: I don´t own anything of SHERLOCK except of my OCs. And of course I don´t earn money with writing this...

Please forgive me if you find any grammar and spelling mistakes. I am a german who now lives in Finland and my english is... improvable. It would be a great help for me, if anyone would be willing to become my beta for this story. Thank you! :)

Chapter 1: "It´s a brain"

Sherlock Holmes was staring at the brain in the microwave. Eventually it would have been a shame to put such a thing in there, but the man who had owned it couldn´t have been too intelligent, he thought. Molly Hooper had liked him.

"Mhm..." He beat the devil´s tattoo on the kitchen table. Then suddenly, he hit his hand in frustration against the wall and sat on a chair his knees tight to his chest like a little boy.

"Why does that not work, John?", he cried.

He was talking about one of his experiments – the brain in the microwave – and he was talking to one of his (or maybe his only?) friends – John Watson, who left their flat like an hour ago to do the shopping. Sherlock had been to busy starring the brain down to notice his friend going.

But it didn´t matter. He wasn´t waiting for an answer anyway – the question had been more rhetorical.

His mobile phone beeped. Frustrated sat Sherlock himself in a normal way and took his phone out of his bathrobe.

Mycroft.

What did he want? And why did he text if he could talk?

Holmes frowned in excitement. Maybe his brother had some serious work for him? Even helping him with his stupid little world-wide-importance-problems was better than staring at a brain. That wasn´t doing any good to his own mind anyway.

Stop staring at your human heart and take it out of the microwave.

I got work for you!

MH

Sherlock grimaced and texted back:

It´s a brain!

SH

But inside he felt the rush of power that came with every new problem he worked on. Mycroft sounded mysterious. Well, that was usual, but him texting meant that something serious was going on. Immediately 14 possible options were found out in his mind. He hoped it wasn´t the one that mummy had called and they had to meet her.

Why did he even signalized that he would come? Usually he just came in when he wanted. But probably he hoped that his brother would get dressed knowing he´s coming. He allowed himself a little smile. Getting dressed! For Mycroft! Despite that, he was dressed. In a bathrobe and nothing else, but after all...: That wasn´t Buckingham palace and his brother had seen him in much worse conditions.

"Sherlock? Ah, don´t worry, no need to help me, I am just carrying 10 litres of milk upstairs, nothing to worry about..." Sarcasm, Holmes thought. He never replied to sarcasm.

John came inside, with the milk he complained about in plastic bags and besides bred, butter, marmelade and vegetables. Sometimes Sherlock was wondering why he was buying so many groceries. He himself never ate when he was working, what was almost everytime. Why waste money on such a boring thing as food?

"You have not really spendt the last our staring at your human brain, have you?!"

Sherlock gave him a bad look. Another of those rhetorical questions that John asked all the time.

"Yes. I have been. And you have bought ten litres of milk, one bread, two packs of butter, strawberry marmalade and carrots and god knows why you bought carrots. Probably you´ve been watching those health shows again and want to take care for your eyes now. But you shouldn´t worry so much about that, they will work for some decades before you will get a cataract. And after we´re unambiguos clear about our personal ways to spend the last hour, you might be interested in the fact that Mycroft will walk through that door in exact 7 ½ minutes and offer us, or to be precise me, a case." And with this words he got up, tightened the belt of his bathing robe and took his violin, starting to play a piece of Vivaldi.

John sighed and started to fill the fridge while he tried to avoid looking at the human hand that was already laying inside it. Sometimes he was asking himself how he could cope living with those genius asshole 24/7. But when the undoubtedly exciting and frightening case Mycroft was offering them would start to be solved by Sherlock, he was sure he would remember.

Then he stopped his movements suddenly and turned around to his flatmate playing the violin.

"Why 7 ½ minutes?"

Sherlock Holmes smiled lazily.

"Because that's the time I´d need to get fully dressed."

"Sir? We´re here." Antheas voice startled Mycroft out of his thoughts about the kidnapper who made the impossible possible – breaking into one of the securest places in Great Britain without being caught, no, more than that, without being even noticed. It was ridiculous.

He took his umbrella, told Anthea to drive to the basis and check every video tape of the last week and contact everyone if anything extraordinary happened he had not been told about. Then he got outside the car and scanned the ambiance for any kind of suspicious things so like contract killers or spies around. Nothing, of course. Just the ordinary Baker Street on a saturday morning.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door of Nr. 221B for him. Mycroft faked a smile for her. "Mrs. Hudson! May I came in?" He didn´t wait for her to apply, stepped inside and looked around again. His baby-brother hadn´t had a client for at least one day, of that he could be assured. So he would be bored enough to help him, but he hadn´t been too bored to get on the drugs again.

Mycroft heard the sound of Vivaldis "Storm" sounding down the stairs and smiled secretly. Sherlock just got the situation perfectly right, as always he knew how his brother felt inside, scared and enraged by the thought of a leak in his security system – or, deep inside, of loosing his Maggie.

"Brother." The violin stopped in the middle of a very fast tune and the blue-grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes, only dressed in bathrobe with nothing underneath, were looking at him.

"Mycroft! What a... wonderful surprise." The addressed one had problems not rolling his eyes. Even knowing there must be a dangerous situation going on, his brother did not stop making stupid jokes.

He gave him a bad look.

"It happened, Sherlock."

"Ah, option 7, I presume. Well, after all that's better than option 3..."

"It´s NOT!" Mycroft hit his umbrella to the ground. "I´d rather have one of those bloody nice tea-how-are-you-boys-chats with mummy than this."

Holmes the younger raised and eyebrow.

"So it´s not option 7, it´s 6. How?", he asked, suddenly excited.

"Not that I want to interrupt this nice lets-show-that-I-am-more-intelligent-than-you-guess-what-the-other-ones-thinking-thing...", John said, coming into the living room.

"You just have", the brothers interjected in unison.

"But, what is going on? Another high-priority government problem?" Dr. Watson was looking alternating at both of them.

Eventually Mycroft cleared his throat and answered him: "I have been..."

Sherlock was playing around with the bow of his violin, his eyes looking at something none of the others could see.

"Come on, say it, Mycroft!"

Another bad look from his brother later that one finished his sentence: "I have been duped. Someone broke into my very own house and killed my personnel today, while I was inside. Furthermore my wife... is gone. Kidnapped probably. Killed in worst case." He said all that in a very cold voice and you could not see worry or angst on his face.

"I guess, all the video tapes are okay and no one has given any kind of alarm?", Sherlock asked, while John was still thinking about the information Mycroft has given.

"Of course yes. Everything looked completely calm. Margarete is gone for four days I presume, and no hint, no message was found by me anywhere in the house. But probably you, my dear brother, could take a closer look on it..."

"Wait, wait, wait!", John interrupted. He was staring at the older Holmes brother in disbelieve. That one leaned his head on his hand and played with the umbrella with his right, while Sherlock was still staring at the violins bow.

"Did you just say your WIFE? You´re married? You can´t be married. Is he married, Sherlock? Sherlock?" Sherlock startled and focused on Dr. Watson, looking distracted.

"Yes, he is. Margarete Holmes, a novelist, writing under the alias Maggie Jupiter." He gave a lazy smile in Mycrofts direction.

"Seriously..." John opened and closed his mouth in disbelief like a fish. "Seriously. Who would marry..." Mycroft raised his eyebrow.

"I mean, nothing against you, but who would marry this man? The ice-man? The government in person?!"

"I did", said a female voice from the door and all the man turned around.

To be continued... Sorry for writing so few, but it felt like a good point to stop. I hope you enjoy my story so far and please let me know, if you spot any mistakes.

I want to thank THOR and GIRLY BEAR for their reviews 33

And it would be nice if all the other would find the time for one or two sentences as well.

Greetings, Glewiel


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